


American Witches Do It Better

by JadeTigerLilly (HeartOfTheMirror)



Category: Hocus Pocus (1993), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, not crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartOfTheMirror/pseuds/JadeTigerLilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the prompt -<br/>"Sherlock lights the black flamed candle.</p><p>Not crack."<br/>on Sherlock Kink Meme <a> here </a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Handsome Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> I'm moving this here to finish it because I'm literally never on my LJ account. Sorry if this causes any confusion!

Sherlock's hair curled like cursive ink over his paper white skin. Every eye in the classroom had been sliding over to him intermittently since 8 o'clock that morning.

It had caused quite a stir, a new student being admitted so late. Oakhill Academy was one of the finest preparatory high schools in the country, and didn't tend to accept tardiness in any way shape or form. But that morning he had stepped out of a sleek black car with ambassador's plates, looking down his nose at everyone all the way to his seat in first period English. Between his handcrafted Italian leather shoes and looks that could make stone angels weep every soul in the school wanted to be in his orbit. 

Unbearably attractive? Check.  
Unbearably rich? Check.  
Hot accent? Check.  
Exotic name? Check.  
Total asshole? Hole in five.

Sherlock Holmes was destined to be hot shit at Oakhill.

John Watson, on the other hand, was luke warm shit. A scholarship kid, sure, but a wicked lacrosse player and such a good guy that no one bothered him. The problem was that he was such a good guy that no one really bothered _with_ him either. He didn't drink, he didn't smoke, he didn't stay out late and 'carouse' (as his grandmother would say) with his peers. He was headed to med school and all he wanted to do was keep his head down. Sherlock Holmes, damn him to a tea-less English hell, made that impossible. 

John only had one vice, only one he allowed himself. He was careful about indulging it but not stingy. John "Three Counties" Watson may have been a seasoned hand when it came to appreciating the human form but even he wasn't immune to the sway of the mysterious, gorgeous, foreign exchange student.

The only class John had with this mystery wrapped in a tailored suit jacket was history with Mrs. Hudson. It was a good class in which to have better things to think about. Mrs. Hudson was easily distracted and fond of using the entire period to detail events from her own life. Her favorite subjects were her summers in Florida, her hip, and the haughty Mrs. Turner who taught English next door, and, oddly enough, wallpaper and home renovation- none of which interested John in the least. Since it was Halloween, however, she dedicated the last half of class to retelling the story of the Sanderson Siblings. An old yarn John had heard a million times, but still entertaining. 

Unless one's name was Sherlock Holmes, apparently. 

Of course John had heard the rumors- impossible not to really. Reputation was everything in a town school like Oakhill and rumors spread more quickly than herpes in a whore house. They said Holmes thought he was better than everyone else, that he was a dick to anyone who tried to talk to him, or even anyone who walked too slow in front of him. They said he had an uncanny knack for knowing things, personal things, about people that he shouldn't be able to know and revealing them at inopportune times. They said his parents had been spies during the cold war and they had taught him this skill.

John was pretty sure the last one was bullshit. He'd given the new boy the benefit of the doubt and assumed the others were too. Until-

"Ridiculous." The surprisingly low baritone of it cut through Mrs. Hudson's well deserved applause. John could feel himself growing hot under the collar in a way that had nothing to do with his reputation as a lover not a fighter. Mrs. Hudson was a bit batty but she was a wonderfully nice woman and it wasn't often she got applause in the classroom. 

"What's the matter dear? Don't believe in Halloween?" she asked with a warm smile. She'd taken a shine to her new pupil somehow.

"Absolutely not. It's an outdated tradition started by barbaric pagans and perpetuated today by sweet companies whose only aim is to indoctrinate the latest generation of Americans into a delightful lifestyle which breeds type two diabetes and heart failure. While making as much money as possible of course." Sherlock managed to both drawl and scathe at the same time, which was fascinating but-

"Halloween is big around here. People need the escape it provides from everyday life. They're thrilled by the things that scare them but they don't want the social stigma of decorating their houses with severed limbs on any ordinary Tuesday. They need the release of a night where fantasy takes over and they can be something else, just for a few hours. It brings communities together, reminds us of our history, and it feeds kids' imaginations. The free candy doesn't hurt either." John smiled his most butter melting smile while the class cheered around him. He hadn't even realized he was speaking until he'd stopped. Shit.

Calls of "You tell him Watson!" and "Owned!" filled the class room.

Then Sherlock Holmes stood up from his seat and there was an absolute breathless silence. He sauntered over to John's desk, dropping a folded piece of paper on his open notebook like a whisper. 

"I might not have much use for Halloween but I'm prepared to spend a night of fantasy with you," Sherlock purred just loud enough to be heard in all corners of the room. The jeers and cat calls came at once, but this time John didn't hear them.

John looked down at the paper; custom stationary with an elegantly scrawled phone number in black ink and nothing more. When John looked up at Sherlock with his mouth hanging open the other boy just winked and turned on his heel in time with the ring of the bell. Sherlock strode over to his desk, collected his books in one fluid motion, and was gone before anyone else could do more than stand. 

John couldn't even do that.

A bunched up wad of paper knocked on the back of John's head. "You can't let the fag get away with that," Anderson said from a few seats back. Anderson's notes were spilling out of his binder even as he tried to stuff them back in. 

"Shut up Anderson," John bit. He didn't exactly broadcast his sexuality but it wasn't a huge dark secret either.

"Mr. Anderson pick that up. I am most definitely not your housekeeper. You now have detention next Saturday, so I hope that teaches you young man." John shared a little smile with Mrs. Hudson. There were a lot of reasons he liked that woman.

The flame colored fallen leaves made a satisfying crunch underfoot as John wheeled his bike away from the madness of students fleeing Oakhill. Sherlock's number sat like Tolkien's One Ring in his pocket. Shagging Sherlock would be about as smart as kicking a hornet's nest and then jumping in a freezing lake, naked, in full view of some picnicking nuns. He'd kept half of his sexuality to himself for seventeen years for a good reason. But then again, Sherlock's shapely lush ass practically had a 'John's Cock Goes Here' sign on it. With numbered instructions. John groaned with gusto as he realized just how fucked he really was. What he needed to do was get home, feed Harry, and forget about-

"I was serious you know. About spending the night with you." Sherlock Holmes. Of fucking course. He was just strolling along next to John, without a care in the world about the black on black car with tinted windows crawling up the street after them like some kind of lethargic pet. "Sherlock Holmes, by the way."

"Yes," John said in the kind of tone that made the Mojave dessert seem positively moist, "I know. I'm John Watson. And I was serious about you not needing to treat Mrs. Hudson that way. She's a sweet woman and she gets really excited for these things. You didn't have to show off to get attention, you know. You had it the minute you walked in the school."

"Attention," Sherlock scoffed, stopping to light up a cigarette. "From those imbeciles? I think not. How can they be so deluded?" He hollowed out his cheeks as he took his first drag.

"Deluded? For believing in Halloween?" Sherlock let the coil of sensuous white smoke rise from his mouth, not quite blowing it out as much as letting it go. Sherlock nodded decisively. "Well in that case... trick or treat." John slipped the folded piece of paper from his pocket and tossed it at Sherlock. He had his leg swung over the bike and was pedaling off before Sherlock even caught it. 

He didn't see the way Sherlock grinned, opening the paper like a delicate Christmas present only to be confronted with his own phone number and nothing beside it where John's number should have been. If John had seen the smile that elicited he would have called it Sherlock's Challenge Accepted smile.


	2. Chapter 2

If John was a little bit suicidally reckless on his ride home after that, then who can judge him really? Being the intended conquest of an unacceptably handsom, rich, intelligent, asshole of a foreign exchange student was a heady feeling. He sped through the forest, dodging around trees and half rotten logs in a way that would seriously concern any sane member of society. 

He didn't mean to cut through the old graveyard; honest. He wasn't thinking for the adrenalin singing in his ears. 

Donovan and Anderson popped out from behind the headstones like gofers and John had to turn his bike sideways and put down his foot to skid to a halt before he could manage the first Manslaughter by Motor-less Vehicle charge in Salem's history.

It really irritated him how smug the two of them looked when they almost caused an accident.

"Johnny Boy!" Donovan said with a nasty grin. "Take a load off and light up with us." She leaned back against a headstone and put one foot up on John's front wheel in a bizarrely uncomfortable looking "I'm-so-cool-with-my-leather-jacket" pose.

"No thanks, I don't smoke," John grit out.

"Oh that's right, I forgot. Johnny Boy wants to be a doctor." Donovan and Anderson exchanged smiles that he was incapable of contemplating without violence. He jerked the front wheel to dislodge Donovan's foot.

"If that's all you wanted-"

"Not quite," Anderson interrupted with a threatening step forward. John found it very difficult to be threatened. "Never would have pegged you for a fag John."

"I bet Donovan's pegged you though Anderson," John said as his bullshit limit overflowed and shut down his mouth to stupid fucking things to say filter. Donovan burst out laughing like she very much couldn't help it while Anderson just looked confused and irritated. She whispered something in his ear and his face turned beet red.

"I go by Ice now, and I'm not the one who likes things shoved up my ass!" Anderson said.

"That's... wow. Good for you Anderson. Ice. Whatever." John moved to leave but Anderson grabs his handle bars.

"That's a nice pair of sneakers you've got there. Too nice for a charity case like you. Why don't I take them off your hands?" Anderson said like he didn't realize he was cliche and revolting. John squared his chin, more than ready.

"You can try."

"What time does your sister get out of school Johnny Boy? How long has she been home alone? Wouldn't want someone to call social services again, would you?" Donovan said, worming her way between her on-again-off-again fuckhead boyfriend and John. And god damn it because she was right and she knew it. Her father was his father's lawyer during the custody battle. Apparently client confidentiality meant fuck all in that house. 

John was pretty confident he could take them both in a fight and he was absolutely positive that med schools didn't look favorably upon applicants who engaged in coed fisticuffs on consecrated ground. Or abandoned their little sisters to empty homes and late dinners. 

Which is how John Watson somehow ended up awkwardly pedaling home without his new sneakers.

...

By the time John got home Harry was already in the living room, sprawled on her stomach and chewing her pencil over her homework. John threw open the cupboards, searching through their stock of 'gourmet' Rice-A-Roni and Top Ramen. It had been a solid week of the stuff and John felt he might be sick if he had to endure another 'homemade meal made easy'. It was a holiday, they should be able to indulge a bit. The only problem was that he didn't have the money for take out nor enough time to run to the store. John took a very angry breath through his flared nostrils and dug around under the cupboard until he found a dusty can of corn and some Spaghettios. A feast fit for kings! 

John put them on low and shuffled off on sore feet to collapse in his bed upstairs. He clutched his pillow to his chest and closed his eyes. An image of Sherlock, all suggestive smiles, appeared in his minds eye immediately.

"Sherlock," John bemoaned. Stupid English bastard was turning him into a prepubescent girl. The least he could do was provide a bit of stress relief on balance, and John seriously doubted if Sherlock would mind being the object of John's thoughts the next time he finally had some alone time.

"Ooooh, John's in loooove!" Harry called, jumping on the bed next to her brother like it was a fucking trampoline. Disgruntled, John got up to check on dinner while Harry trailed after him making kiss-y noises. "Is Sherlock a boy? Does he know you like him?" Spaghettios were smoking and the corn smelled a bit... off.

"Shut up Harry!" John snapped. He wrestled his temper down and then effectively kicked it in the nuts with a reminder that Harry didn't have anyone but him and none of this was her fault. Life was such a downer when it shit all over you and didn't even have the decency to give you someone to yell at about it. 

He checked the clock. "We'd better eat quick if you still want me to take you trick-or-treating. There's a lot of houses to hit and it'll be dark in an hour." He forced a smile and Harry lunged forward to hug him around the middle.

"You're the best brother ever Johnny!" 

It wasn't even a matter for discussion that they would hoof it toward the more wealthy part of town to start their rounds. John took three candy bags because Watson's didn't do anything half-assed, up to and including candy collection. This holiday had long since convinced John that if his little sister ever wanted to live like an outlaw, a life of collecting markers for the mob would be well suited to her. 

...

Sherlock's family was unimaginably dull. They somehow managed to take the only holiday of the year that was meant to be celebrated with severed limbs and turn it into a Victorian fete. A sanitized networking opportunity. Loathsome. 

And to think he could have been spending the night between John Watson's sheets, ridding himself of the pesky condition of virginity. The world was certainly a cruel place. 

Just to chafe at his already injured sense of justice, Sherlock was forced into a costume Mummy had chosen to be in keeping with the theme of the fete. And he had been made to- he shuddered to think of it- he, Sherlock Holmes, was being made to hand out candy to the hoard of greedy, grubby, grabby little children that came to the door in ceaseless droves. Torture was a pathetically unimaginative understatement.

Noncompliance would result in some extremely unfortunate consequences, Mummy had said. Mummy didn't make threats like Papa and Mycroft did. She simply stated facts. They would be respected in this community. There would be rain on Tuesday. Sherlock would do as he told. Mummy would finally buy him his own centrifuge first thing in the morning if he preformed like a dancing monkey for the guests when he would much rather be preforming for John Watson. 

When the doorbell rang again at 8:05 Sherlock had to use all his willpower to drag himself to the head of the stairs. For a split second he wondered if he was imagining John standing in the foyer by the overdone candy display. Maybe he'd reconsidered Sherlock's offer? But, no. John wore exactly what he had on in school, no extra product in his hair but he had changed his into older and presumably more comfortable shoes. His body language was all wrong for someone who expected a sexual encounter. As a matter of fact he seemed stressed. That probably had to do with the young female child clutching at his hand, obviously a relative. John was holding weighty sacks of candy. Not a social call at all then. Sherlock sighed and started down the stairs. The noise made John turn around. 

Sherlock had the supreme satisfaction of seeing John's jaw go slack for a split second. Perhaps the night had possibilities after all?

John's mouth was watering. He'd never been so turned on by someone who was so completely covered before. Sherlock's costume probably cost more than John's father made in a week. The shined black oxfords, perfectly tailored dark grey pinstriped trousers that hugged those mile long legs, the figure flattering black wool great coat. A blood red cravat peaked out of the top, accentuating the pale delectable length of Sherlock's neck. John wanted to rip it all off. Violently and now. He wanted Sherlock's body to be covered only by John's hands, his mouth, his sheets. Suits really were lingerie for men.

Harry, scowling, yanked sharply on John's arm. John clenched his jaw and thought about Anderson and Donovan, dirty laundry, and his mother- all the most potent boner killers he had in his repertoire. 

"John," and fuck, because Sherlock's voice was like jaguar trapped in a cello playing a Leonard Cohen song and it made John feel overdressed because he wasn't naked. As if reading his mind, Sherlock threw off his great coat with a graceful dramatic flare that would make Shakespearean actors proud and threw it over the banister. Underneath the coat he had a white dress shirt and a black vest with an intricate silver pattern swirling over top. There was no hope of killing the awkward boner now that John had seen what that did for Sherlock's figure. Also, apparently, the Holmes's liked to keep their house at subtropical temperatures because John was pretty sure he was sweating.

"You must be Sherlock," Harry piped up. They both looked at her. "John wants to- how did you put it John? 'Butter his buns'? He thinks you have amazing buns." John groaned and covered his face with his palm. Sherlock laughed.

"I am so sorry," John muttered past his humiliation. "I never said anything like that. Not that you don't have a great bum, I'm sure you know you do, I just never said that." John internally noted that he was a real smooth motherfucker. Oh yes, John 'Three Counties' Watson, that was him.

"What are you supposed to be?" Harry asked Sherlock.

"Jack the Ripper," Sherlock said, although his mother would have scowled mightily had she heard and the costume lacked historical accuracy. "And you're obviously a witch, but John, he doesn't seem to be wearing a costume does he?" John felt a vague and potentially unfounded sense of unease at the direction of this conversation. There shouldn't be anything suggestive about- "Why don't you come upstairs with me John? I think I have something you'd fit in just perfectly."

"John doesn't want to wear a costume," Harry chirped as John choked on his own tongue. "He's a responsible adult now."

"That's such a shame," Sherlock said, overacting his sad face with a pout that actually almost made John sympathetic. "I thought John would love the chance to play doctor."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some idiot virgin lights a black flame candle. In other words, Sherlock done fucked up and John aint happy.

“This party is boring,” Harry whined, breaking the moment. Sherlock eyed her with the appreciation one might show a dog that had learned to sit on command. 

“Slightly above average intelligence may actually run in the Watson blood. How astonishing. Luckily for us all, I have something better planned. Tell me Harry, have you ever been to the Sanderson Museum?”

“No,” Harry said with a touch of regret. “They shut it down years ago.” 

“Perfect,” exclaimed Sherlock, his eyes lighting up like a million fireworks over a clear blue lake at dusk. John knew viscerally that that was a dangerous look. One he wanted more of. One he must learn to ignore.

 

Now don't get him wrong, John Watson was a sensible young man with a good head on his shoulders. The only reason he'd dragged poor Harry along dark, half dead streets was to keep an eye on the English buffoon swanning about ahead of them. How could john leave the foolhardy bastard to wander around in the unfamiliar dark? What if he were to run into some ignorant sack of shit like Anderson? Thin, elegant Sherlock looked like someone who was used to using the sharp steel of his massive intellect, rather than delicate bones and physical fortitude to win his battles. He needed John. For protection. Obviously.

So what if he'd had to bribe Harry with three weeks worth of macaroni-and-cheese-with-hotdog-slices for dinner? A small price to pay for a clear view- conscience. A clear conscience where Sherlock was concerned. 

“Legend has it that the bones of a hundred children are buried in these walls. Rubbish- hardly enough square footage for a mass grave of that size once you consider all the factors,” Sherlock said cheerfully. The lonely road have given way to the desolate little stone dwelling that had once belonged to three witches whose memory still haunted Salem. 

“Oh look, gate's locked. Maybe we should head back,” Harry said with just a hint of fear staining her voice. 

“Ye of little faith,” Sherlock scorned her playfully. John had never expected to see the other boy in a mood like this- almost exuberant, teasing and giddy. It made John itch to scale the stone wall himself- maybe if Sherock helped with Harry...

But by the time the thought had flitted across the elder Watson's mind Sherlock had already picked the lock and swung the rusty gate open, grinning despite the eerie wailing shriek of protest it gave at being parted. Sherlock lead them with theatrical slowness across the yard and up the few groaning wooden steps. 

The air inside the cottage was stale, dusty, and black as pitch. 

“I can't see a thing,” Harry said, coughing with each new unpleasant breath. 

“Stand still the both of you! Give me a moment and I will deduce the location of the light switch.” The Watson's gave each other a look that was felt more than seen. Joint exasperation was something they had perfected well over the years. Nonetheless they obligingly stood where they were, hand and hand in the middle of the room. They could hear Sherlock bumbling around. A crash to the left, a British voice demanding, “That was meant to happen! Useless detritus.” A clanging clatter just in front of them. “Almost there!” Sherlock called. 

John squeezed Harry's hand in silent comfort. There was some rummaging and then Sherlock's face was lit up with the orange glow of his silver zippo. Casting the meager light around him it took only a second for Sherlock to flip the light switch. “Child's play,” he said, swiping disdainfully at the cobwebs that clung longingly to the tailored suit that he'd changed into before leaving.

“The book,” said John, drawn to it by equal measures of disgust and fascination. “Bound in human skin, a gift from the devil, full of magic words and curses...” John let his fingers tough the cool glass. The ugly scarred stitches, the blemished surface- John couldn't help with wonder if he was really looking at dead human flesh. 

John heard the flick of Sherlock's zippo behind him, saw the grinning boy holding the flame near the wick of an intricate and foreboding candle. The black flame candle. The one that was destined to bring the child killing witches back from the grave if lit on Halloween by a virgin.

'“What the fuck are you doing?” John demanded. “Put that down you moron.” Not that John thought a man with Sherlock's libido was likely to remain celibate, but still. 

“Oh come on John, it's not like we're in any actual danger.” As if to prove thee self assured words were a family-sized crock of shit a sleek gray cat threw itself at Sherlock's face with a hissing scream. “Bollocks fucking cock!” Sherlock screamed, clawing at the creature and throwing it aside, where it slid into the shadows with a warning hiss. “Mangy bastard.”

“Come on Sherly, let's go,” Harry whined, stomping her feet impatiently and tugging John's jumper toward the door. 

“Don't call me that,” Sherlock said automatically.

“It's time to go,” John said. “Point proven, come on.” 

“Not until I rid you of this foolish superstition. What condition must American be in, if her medical doctors believe in such nonsense?” Sherlock dusted off his zippo and the flame against the wick with a little smile. It caught and immediately turned black, a strung gust of wind blowing through the stagnant air. 

“What did I fucking tell you!” John shouted. “What did I fucking tell you?” The light bulbs in the fake candles popped one by one, scattering little sprinkles of glass everywhere. 

“Correlation does not equal causation John!” Sherlock screamed over the gusting wind. Harry shrieked, clutching her brother's arm and burring her face in his jumper. 

“It you make my little sister cry, so help me-” but that thought was never finished because the floorboard started shaking, a sickly green light creeping from between them as acrid fog crept across the floor, twisting around their ankles and sucking the heat from their very bones. 

“I admit that I didn't anticipate this response!” Sherlock shouted over the racket, stumbling into the glass case that held the book, and clutching on to it for balance. 

At once all was still. The three cautiously looked around. “What _was_ that?” Sherlock asked, alive beyond all reason and half sure he was dreaming.

“A _virgin_ lit the black flame candle,” John informed him sardonically. The fake candles decorating the room suddenly lit themselves, plastic transformed to wax when they weren't looking. The fireplace beneath the cauldron gave a great roar as flames rushed up the cast iron sides of it. 

“Hide.” Sherlock found his body complying almost before he'd processed the unarguable command in John's voice. Which was lucky because the door banged open the next instant and three figures stood grinning in the light of their former home. The short on in the middle giggled with strangely charming psychopathic glee. 

“Home at last,” he hissed, sliding into the room and clapping his hands before him in absurd glee. His brother and sister slunk in after him, each exuberant in their own way. The sleek silver cat looked on with distaste from the shadows. “Ah, revenge will be ours at last my dear, sweet, siblings,” he said, turning sharply to caress their cheeks, scrapping his nails over their necks and drawing blood for the simple pleasure of it. The man and woman shivered but dared not move to defy him and he said nothing, predatory eyes devouring their submission for a moment before he broke away, switch flipping and manic glee returning. “My curse worked perfectly!” he exclaimed.

“Because thou art perfect, Jim,” the hulking blond brother spoke with a surprisingly gentle voice, adoration and a plea for praise shining brightly in his colorless blue eyes. Jim preened under the attention and stalked further into the room, leaving his brother to trail after him like a demented puppy. The sister reached above her head, the too tight, too small corset and ragged skirt revealing cut milky hipbones.

“So many fond memories,” the hulking brother said softly, eyes shining as he glanced around the room. “Killing children. Raping virgins. Eating the flesh of virtuous men.” He breathed a delicate little sigh.

“My lucky rat leather riding crop!” the sister screamed with a rabid smile and a hint of gravel in her voice. “Just where I left it.”

“Yes, dear,” dismissed Jim, his eyes locked on their source of their renewed life. “But who lit the black flamed candle?” His soft steps approached the item in question and Sherlock halted all breath at the proximity of the witch who smelled of piss and the grave. With a breathy gasp of pleasure Jim turned abruptly from the candle to the book. “Oh baby, come to daddy,” he growled, caressing the glass lustfully. “Wake up my darling, yes. Who's your daddy?” The book blinked open its one eye slowly and he grinned at it like a snake curling around a nice fat mouse. “We've got _sooo_ much work to do,” he sing-songed at the book.

“Jim,” the brother sang in response, settling one big hand on the slighter man's shoulder. “I smell children.” 

“Sic 'em, Tiger,” Jim whispered. John and Harry curled into themselves, Sherlock's heart beating like a trapped animal in his chest. The big man paced around the cauldron, Jim following closely behind. 

“It's a little girl- seven and a half or eight, maybe.” He took a deep breath and their sister slapped her riding crop against her palm. 

“Oh, can we play with her? Can we please?”

“Not now Irene,” Jim snapped. “We need to properly thank our little guest, don't we Seb?” 

“Of course Jim.” Irene mocked Seb behind his back but gave up her grudge to the excitement began singing softly.

“Come little children I'll take you away,”

“Shh,” Jim whispered, covering his sister's mouth gently as they tip toes to a stop by the counter where souvenirs had been sold in the days of the museum. “Come out dearest, we shan't harm thee.” Seb banged one impressive fist down on the counter top, shattering the glass and making Harry jump up with a shriek.  
They stared at her witch's costume with blatant surprise. 

“I thought thou would never come, sisters,” Harry improved, lifting her chin imperiously.

“Greetings little one,” Jim said, looking like he was about to bite into a juicy apple. 

“Twas I who brought you back.”

“Imagine,” Jim drawled catching Irene's eye and exchanging a knowing look. “Aren't you a pretty little,” Jim choked on suddenly ill-hidden disgust, “child.” 

“Well fed, isn't she,” Seb commented, having slid around the counter at some point and bent to pinch Harry's baby fat.

“Ahh!” Harry yipped, covering her mouth with both hands. John clutched his hands into fists. No one hurt his baby sister.


	4. Idiots, One and All

John lunged for the nearest witch, Jim, and tackled him against a shelf of bottles and assorted ingredients. Jim screamed in outrage as Seb growled and grabbed at John, missing him but giving Jim enough time to zap John with two wild arcs of oddly green electricity. John was flung away from the witches, screaming in omnipresent pain. 

“Well, well, well, big brother to the rescue is it?” Jim sneered, allowing Seb and Irene to pull him to his feet and dust him off with frantic hands, half terrified and half worshipful. Jim swatted his siblings away, eyes only on where John was sprawled, still dazed, in the dust of the old floor. “I suppose we'll just have to teach you a little lesson about interfering with other people's supper, now won't we little doggie?” 

Jim grinned his insane asylum grin and threw his hands out before him, fingertips spread wide, so that the putrid electricity could arc from them to the fallen boy, making his body convulse involuntarily as he tried in vain not to scream and cry as the witches laughed delightfully and Harry stared on in mute shock. 

Strangely enough it was Sherlock who felt he could take no more when he sprang from his hiding place and put his hands on the first viable weapon he could see- a witch's broom. 

“Irene,” he called to the one standing nearest him. 

She turned around with a devastating smile and said, “Hello,” just as he slammed the stick into her face as hard as he could. It cracked against her skull like a baseball bat and she dropped like old crumpled newspaper to the floor. Sherlock kicked her out of the way and snatched a frying pan from over the fireplace as the other witches turned around, aghast at his very insolence. He slammed it into Seb's thick face, knocking him back, but not unconscious. 

Harry grabbed for her dazed brother in terror as Jim turned on them but before he could do them any harm the sleek gray cat leaped from the shadows and dug its claws into his smooth face. He screamed, digging his fingers into the fur as the three kids scrambled to their feet, clutching at each other, pushing and shoving each other to the exit.

“Get out! Go, go, go!” John screamed, catching his little sister under her arms and carrying her bodily through the door. Rather than following, Sherlock scrambled up to the lofted portion of the shack, standing on a narrow beam and facing the quickly recovering witches. 

“Idiots!” Sherlock screamed, catching their attention. “You've crossed the mighty and terrible Sherlock of the clan Holmes. Now you must suffer the consequences of my wrath. I summon the burning rain of death to purge you all from this earth!” Sherlock palmed his lighter as the witches looked at each other quizzically. He flicked the lighter and they gasped as the flame sprang forth. He held it up to the fire detector and after a half a second where he fervently prayed that this backwater had sense enough to at least keep up the fire system, the pipes gave a groan and water sprouted from every sprinkler.

The witches screamed, running about like chickens on market day as Sherlock looked on with a self satisfied smile blooming on his face. The cat landed nimbly on his left shoulder, throwing him off balance and on the defensive before he realized, that at least for now, it wasn't attacking him.

“Get the book you bleedin' idiot!” the cat growled, which even Sherlock was viscerally aware was no proper cat behavior. 

“What-”

“Now!” It ordered. And Sherlock, being a sensible boy, obeyed, bringing his elbow down hard on the glass case and shattering it.

“My book!” Jim wailed as his siblings held him back away from the burning rain of death.

Sherlock snatched the unpleasant text and sprinted out after the Watsons, the mercury colored cat at his heels the whole way.

The Sandersons had tucked themselves into the driest corner of their little cabin they could find, cowering and clutching each other as they wailed and whimpered in fear. Jim with his features twisted, all serpentine calculation and suspicion, struck his cupped hand under the nearest sprinkler, gathering some water and bringing it to his lips. 

“You fools!” He shrieked, enraged. “It's fucking water!” He smacked Seb and Irene in unison, shoving them and snarling fiercely. Seb blinked rapidly and caught some to taste. 

“Refreshing,” he said bluntly. Irene began pulling at her clothes as if she intended to bathe right then and there. Jim smacked them harder. Shoving and pulling he herded his two whimpering siblings toward the door, ignoring Seb's simpering apologies and entreaties and Irene's manic giggles.

The eldest Sanderson marched the other two all the way to the pavement of the road before the flashing red lights and wailing siren of the approaching fire engine made them shriek and dive abruptly for cover. Jim's nostrils flared, his teeth gritting as he too crouched behind the over grown bushes and foliage in order to observe the first responders going about their work. 

“Witch hunters,” he muttered darkly. “Look, they even carry axes with which to chop the wood to burn us. How fun.”

“Fun?” asked Irene, her perpetually ruby lips quirking in an inviting smile. 

“By fun I mean that we're all fucked, of course,” Jim carried on neutrally. “The situation is more dire than either of you realize. The magic that keeps us in the realm of the living is only good on this one night. If we don't suck up some kiddie's soul before sunrise we turn back to dust and say bye-bye to the mortal world forever.”

Irene plucked a spider off her sleeve and munched on it forlornly. Seb sniffed and hugged himself, looking at his brother through wide toffee eyes. 

“Fear not my darling siblings,” Jim cooed, curling an arm around each of them, “for the potion I brewed the night we were hanged will keep us alive and young forever. Now we just have to track down and eviscerate that pretentious little sodomite and get my book back and all our problems can just float away.” He kissed their foreheads in quick succession as he ended his tale. “Do you understand?” 

“Yes Jim,” purred Irene. 

“What?” asked Seb. Jim's look promised a slow and creative end to his brother. “You're just so pretty,” Seb sighed, reaching to caress Jim's face. Jim snapped at the hand which Seb drew back with a yelp. 

“We'll cover more ground if we fly. To our brooms you hopeless fools.” Jim turned on heel and his brother and sister followed obediently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, questions, suggestions, kudos, and requests are always welcome! :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited, written while sleep deprived and high on sugar and coffee. 
> 
> I'm going to try to pull an all nighter and finish this puppy up. It might not technically be Halloween but close enough! :P

Lestrade's story was sad as all shit. Their little group was huddled together in the cemetery, on hallowed ground where no witch could step foot. Lestrade the sleek gray cat was perched on a tombstone, eyeing them all sternly.

“My sister's life was stolen by the Sandersons three centuries ago. I tried to stop them but I was too late. They killed her and cursed me to be trapped in this shape forever so that I might mourn my sister's loss and remain separated from my family throughout eternity. Spiteful fucking bastards. Let me tell you lads, you really don't appreciate opposable thumbs until they're gone, not really. Anyway, I realized that the only thing left for me to do was to guard that fucking candle so that the world would never be cursed with such monsters again. Every Halloween I would crawl around that house, reliving my sister's murder again and again all night, just so I could keep some fucking moron virgin from lighting that fucking candle.” 

“Nice going Sherlock,” Harry said snidely. 

“This cat can't be speaking,” Sherlock muttered, clutching his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth. “It doesn't have the proper anatomy, it can't, it can't.” The stress of the day was beginning to take its toll on his logical and scientific mind. 

“Well it fucking is,” John countered offhandedly. 

“We've all taken LSD. There was acid in the food, the water, something. We've been drugged,” Sherlock rambled. John rubbed Sherlock's shoulders soothingly, growing more and more concerned. 

“Hey, come on now. Let's not think about it, alright Sherlock? Let's just focus on the next step,” John sushed, deriving a sick pleasure from the way that Sherlock leaned into his hands trustingly. 

“Don't open that book!” Lestrade hissed. Harry immediately dropped the spell book she'd been peaking at and it fell to the damp grass. 

“Why not?” she countered with a pout. 

“All of that smarmy asshole's most dangerous spells are written in there. That's no toy,” the cat told her in a gentle but firm tone.

“We burn it.” Sherlock had come back to himself a bit under John's ministrations but the others were still surprised by this declaration. Sherlock scrambled forward on his knees and brought out his lighter, igniting it and holding the flame to the dry pages fruitlessly. 

“It's protected by magic,” Lestrade warned him. 

“I'm sure with enough experimentation-” Sherlock began. He was interrupted by the cackles of the witches flying over head. Harry gathered up the book and backed up to the earthy embankment behind them, Sherlock and John standing protectively before her and Lestrade staring them down from his perch on the tombstone. 

Irene's broomstick floated gently downwards until she was a mere yard away from Sherlock. She leaned her elbows on the stick and supported her head coyly in one hand while the other reached out to Sherlock. “Brave little virgin who lit the candle, I'll be your friend,” she cooed. There was a great view of her clevage and John could only think of one thing to do. 

He grabbed a fallen branch by his feet and swiped at her viciously. “Back off bitch!” He screamed, smacking his branch against her broom handle and sending her veering wildly off course.

“Booooook!” Jim sing-songed. “Come to daddy my darling.” The spell book began to lift itself slowly off the ground. 

Lestrade lept on it, snarling, “Afraid not you dick!” 

“Gregory Lestrade, well isn't this a turn up? Still alive I see. And living in a gutter going by the look of your hide.” Jim's siblings snickered at his joke.

“Alive and waiting for you!” Lestrade screamed.

“Well isn't that cute,” said Jim mildly. “Maybe it's time for a little reunion, what do you think hmm?” Jim held up his hands like a conductor waiting for silence. “Little lover long since dead, it's time to wake from your wormy bed. Body buried beneath this hallowed soil, be brought forth once more to hunger and toil. It's been three hundred years since you spoke your lies, wake now from your undeserved rest and rise!” The ground began to shake and rumble beneath their feet. 

“Oh no,” moaned Lestrade. John grabbed hold of Harry. He and Sherlock exchanged looks of despair as the Sandersons grinned wolfishly above them.

The grave by their feet, the grave of Molly Hooper, began to split open, dirt giving way to aged pine wood which trembled as fists pounded it from the inside. Sherlock grabbed on to John and Harry, pulling them back a few steps away as Lestrade lept to Sherlock's shoulder and dug in. All at once the coffin lid flew open and the ragged dusty form of what had once been Molly Hooper rose to sit for the first time in quite a long while. Her mouth was stitched shut, her hair was a tangled, matted mess, her pastel pink dress was in utter ruins. She turned her head to regard the kids (and cat) huddled near her not-so-final resting place. All at once they screamed and scrambled away frantically.

Molly looked down at herself in sad confusion, and then at her grave marker, and then groaned in exasperation. 

“Move you ingrate! Get up you lazy slut!” Jim screeched. “I didn't raise you from the dead for nothing you know!” Groaning with displeasure Molly forced herself to stand and stagger after the fleeting party. “Hunt them down, kill them and bring me that book!” Jim shrieked, soaring away with his siblings in tow. 

“This way!” Lestrade yelled, running for a crawl-space sized entrance to the catacombs beneath the graveyard. Sherlock Harry and John quickly slipped in after him while Molly bumbled around running into trees and crying. 

“Jim! Jim wait!” Seb called as they landed outside the cemetery gates. Jim was pacing furiously. “We need to remain calm,” Seb said sushingly. 

“I AM CALM!” Jim screeched. 

“Oh Jimmy, Jim, Jim. Lying to yourself, really? Not good for your health my dear brother. Come on now, a calming circle would help us all.” Jim gave a little sigh, the tension beginning to dissipate from his body even before he jumped into place. His two siblings jumped next to him and they all clasped hands letting out a breath as one. 

They began turning in a circle one step at a time, eyes closed. 

“Dead children, lifeless little eyes, pale blue skin,” Jim began.

“Riding crops and whips and chains, St. Andrew's Cross and instruments of pain,” Irene said with a content little hum to her voice.

“Mom's scorpion and orphan pie,” said Seb. They all sighed, “Mommy,” in unison, their hands going automatically to their hearts.  


“Where are we going!?” John demanded following Lestrade through the confusing serpentine tunnels at a brisk jog. 

Molly followed far behind them, bumbling gracelessly after the echos of their voices, grunting each time she stumbled into a wall.

“Just keep moving. We'll talk when we loose her!” John considered very seriously whether or not kicking Lestrade would technically be animal abuse. 

“He's right John, come on,” Sherlock said, huffing with the prolonged exercise. He grabbed John's hand gently and squeezed. John felt some of his tension, his aggression, his frustration, draining with that simple touch. They kept their hands linked together until they came to the ladder which lead up to the street. 

Sherlock reached for Harry lifting her up a few rungs and letting her climb first. Lestrade was curled around Harry's shoulders, encouraging her silently as she climbed. John couldn't help the smile that came to his face if he wanted to, even as Sherlock wiped his hands on his trousers and sniffed. 

“It's just practical,” he said. “She's the most likely to fall, this way we can catch her. I mean, she won't slow us down with her whining.” 

“Whatever you say,” John told him, resting a hand on Sherlock's spine in thanks. Sherlock shivered as John's warmth seeped through the fabric over his lower back. 

Lestrade hopped out first, shaking out his fur like a dog and not seeing the bus as it sped toward them. 

“Lestrade!” Harry yelled as John yanked her away from the manhole opening. He looked back at her and never noticed the bus until it was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos, suggestions, questions and requests always welcome <3
> 
> Happy Samhain/Halloween/ All Hallows Eve everyone!!!


	6. Chapter 6

Harry wept even as John ran for the cat. She knew it was too late, she couldn't even bring herself to look. Sherlock, surprisingly, wound a cautious arm around her, patting her shoulder awkwardly as she cried into his bony chest. He wasn't as good for comfort as Johnny but she knew what it meant to him to try to offer, in a strange, uncharacteristic burst of insight. 

She curled into him even further, her heartbroken wailing drowning out the sound of her brother's voice. She could tell he was trying to get her attention but she didn't want to hear it. She knew how life and death worked, she wasn't so naive as to believe that there was anything more to be said about it. She wasn't one for useless platitudes, none of the Watsons were, and she figured, indignantly, that John above all others should have known that.

She turned to give him a piece of her mind on the subject, belligerently wiping her eyes and smearing her dollar store eyeliner everywhere. 

"Oh," she said, staring dumbfounded at Lestrade curled up in John's arms, hale and whole and definitely radiating amused concern for her.

"I'm immortal," Lestrade told her gently. "The buses aren't even the half of it. You really have no idea about fleas. I'd be run over a dozen times before spending another summer without a flea collar."

"Oh," Harry said again, her brain still working overtime to catch up with this development and turn an about face on her emotional state. Sherlock snorted, pushing the little girl just enough that she detached herself from him and stepped back. 

He bent down to critically eye the smeared make up all over Harriet's little face. He took her face between his palms, resting one thumb on each cheek and swiping them several times until things looked a bit more manageable. 

"Emotion is the enemy of reason Watson," Sherlock told her seriously. "But when reason has been taken from behind by a fat load of superstitious hokum, well then, perhaps, emotional displays are not so irrational as they might otherwise seem." 

"Sherlock!" John scolded, his ears turning red. "She's just a kid! You can't-! Look Harry, forget all that shit he said. We need to get inside. We need help. We're in over our heads."

"Town Hall," Sherlock said decisively, clutching Harriet's cold little hand in one of his own and marching off with his coat billowing before he'd even finished speaking. 

"Why not just go back to your house?" John questioned, jogging to catch up with the others. "Your father's some kind of ambassador isn't he? He'd be able to do something, call someone!"

"While my family may have some diplomatic connections, and immunity, they do not have the means to assert any kind of immediate action, having just arrived and being unknown to the community at large. We need someone with an intimate knowledge of the Sanderson siblings, someone with jurisdiction and someone with the intelligence and smarmy bureaucratic wheedling to put both of those things to good use without a whole lot of fuss and questions being asked. In short, Mrs. Hudson, the chief of police and my brother Mycroft. All of whom promise to be at the party being held at the town hall.” 

…

“Mycroft!” Sherlock yelled, once they were in the crowded hall covered in black and orange streamers and corny Halloween decorations. He ran up to a man who at first looked to John to be about thirty, but when he caught up with Harry and Sherlock he saw that that was not so. Mycroft Holmes was only six years older than his brother, but his impeccable dress and regal posture gave him an aloof authority that belied his years. 

“What could you possibly want now?” Mycroft said in response to his younger brother pushing his way through the crowd with utter disregard for everyone around him. Where Mycroft’s companions all seemed to see disdain in his face, John could see the hint of concern and the underlying curiosity there

“The Sanderson Siblings have risen from the grave and intend to kill us all!” Sherlock panted, red in the face like a lobster, bent over his knees as gasping for breath in a great impersonation of a guppy.

The men Mycroft was drinking punch with all laughed. “A Halloween prank,” one of them muttered, shaking his head. He was dressed like Woody from Toy Story and it wouldn’t be difficult for John to guess who he was even if he hadn’t met the town sheriff a time or two before.

“Sheriff Rollins we aren’t making this up!” John yelled. “The whole town is in danger and we need to do something!” 

“That’s preposterous! Now, I want you to cut this out John. You’re liable to scare your baby sister there, sayin’ a thing like that. It’ alright sweetheart, there aint no such thing as the Sanderson Siblings,” the sheriff said. Mycroft’s eyebrows were furrowed into something between concern and constipation.

“But there is!” Harry protested, stamping her foot. “I saw them! Sherlock lit the candle and brought them back to life all because John wouldn’t-”

“The point, Sheriff Rollins, is that there are three deranged women with unnatural evil powers who are posing a threat to everyone here. Do you intend to do anything about that, hmm?” Sherlock asked, in his most annoying and condescending tone.

“No!” the sheriff spat, turning away from the younger Holmes definitively. “Mycroft, it’s been real nice meeting you, but I gotta say your brother’s idea of fun don’t amuse me much. I’m gonna get another drink. Maybe you can talk some sense into these kids.” As the sheriff and his friends walked away from Mycroft toward the punch bowl the sheriff gripped John’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “I expected better things from you John.”

“Well I expected better things from you too so I guess we’re all disappointed.” Sheriff Rollins rolled his eyes and left.

“Sherlock, we talked about this last time,” John heard Mycroft whispering.

“This isn’t like last time, I haven’t OD’ed, I’m not making this up because of some binge on psychotropic controlled substances. Mycroft, this is serious. I’m sober. These people are dangerous.”

“You can not possibly expect me to believe that,” Mycroft said dryly, managing to look down his nose at his brother while simultaneously inspecting the Watsons as if they were something disconcerting his cat had dragged in. “I want a urine test or I’m calling the charming rehab facility I’ve had on speed dial since we moved to this ungodly American backwater.”

“Oh to Hell with this!” Sherlock decided, pushing his way through the crowd and leaping on stage in one stunning cat like motion. All the potential horrible death aside, it was a true pleasure for John to watch those miles long stunning legs in action.

Sherlock shoved the men in the skeleton costume aside, grabbing the mic and pulling it from its stand.

“Everyone stop. Just stop what you’re doing right now.” The music and dancing tapered off, even those drinking from the heavily spiked tropical punch looked up in alarm. “Your children are in great danger.” There was a cry from the crowd, the beginnings of wild eyed panic. 

“Listen to me! You may not like it and you may not want to believe it but the truth is that three very dangerous people have risen from the grave and intend to suck the lives out of your children in a mad bid for immortality. If we don’t do something now it will soon be too late!” There was laughter and drunken shouting from the crowd. Sherlock, bewildered, looked on at his handiwork, searching his massive mind in vain for the right combination of words that would get them to believe.

“They’re right over there!” Sherlock shouted, pointing to the three witches in the crowd. The spotlight swung over to them in an arc that very much indicated its operator had been in the tropical punch. Gasping, everyone turned to stare at the Sandersons.

“Thank you Sherlock, for that _marvelous_ introduction,” Jim said smoothly, his eyes glinting snakishly in the light. He shifted his hips effortlessly into a dancer’s stance, waving his fingers before him.

“I put a spell on you! And now you’re mine,” Jim sang sashaying through the crowd with big theatrical gestures and a winning grin. “You can’t stop the things I do,” Jim continued, catching Sherlock’s eyes even as the young Holmes covered his ears frantically. Irene and Seb took up their positions as back up singers, dancing and harmonizing with their brother.

“Don’t listen!” John screamed at Mycroft who was scoffing in his utter disbelief. John and Harry at least, screwed their eyes shut and kept their fingers pressed in their eas as Jim Seb and Irene took to the stage, forcing Sherlock to leap back in the crowd and make for the Watsons just as Molly Hooper broke through the crowd with her sewed up lips and her raggedy confection pink dress. 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock yelled as John gathered up Harry in his arms, searching for an escape route. But to Sherlock’s great and everlasting horror, by this time even Mycroft Holmes was dancing with abandon. “Run!” Sherlock screamed, having abandoned all hope of finding a solution in rationality. They scrambled through the side exit into the alley that abuted the surf ‘n turf place next door.

“Dance, dance!” Jim was cackling from the stage. “Dance until you die!” 

…

“Give me the book John,” Sherlock ordered, his eyes and hair both wilder than John had ever seen them. He tried not to be turned on by the fact, he honestly did, but John had always had a problem controlling himself with this much adrenaline pumping through his blood.

“Why?” John asked. “What are you planning?”

“I want you to take Harry back to my house. You’ll find a panic room in the basement. The code is 2321, just lock yourself in there with her and I’ll distract them as long as I can.”

“No!” John growled, grabbing Sherlock by his lapels. “You need to calm down and be reasonable. None of us are splitting up, you got that you pig headed arse?” 

“Your Brit comes out when you’re angry John,” Sherlock observed with a startled little smirk.

“You’re damn right it does,” John said his eyes flicking down to Sherlock’s lips.

“Look out, here they come!” Lestrade warned, bounding behind a crate. They all ducked and hid, holding back their suddenly ragged breaths.

“What do you smell brother,” Jim asked Seb, running his hands through the taller witch’s short hair as their sister made gagging faces at them behind their back. “What do you smell tiger, come on, tell Jim like a good boy.”

“I smell,” Seb said, sniffing at the air. “I smell… lobster.” Jim growled, cuffing Seb upside the head.

“Idiot!” Jim screamed. “We’ll just have to keep looking.” Jim pulled the whimpering Seb out of the alley by his ear, yelling for the unnaturally still Irere to shake herself out of her daze and follow.

They each took a deep breath as they heard the witches’ footsteps fading into the distance. 

“I have an idea,” John said, looking between the rusted old fryer behind which he’d hid and the mouth of the alley where the Sandersons had disappeared.

…

It didn’t take long for the Sandersons to track their scent to the high school, or for Sherlock and John to lay the trap which lured the witches into the kiln. It was all so easy. That should have been the first clue.

When they arrived back at Sherlock’s announcing their presence to an empty house that should have been the second. 

But they were young and foolish and drunk on what they thought was a victory so they chose not to notice. Sherlock set Lestrade up with a can of tuna fish- more than John on his limited earnings and the only occasional parental support he received could provide. 

They set up Harry in one of the guest bedrooms with an improvised litter box for her new best friend while John and Sherlock gathered their wits in the room next door. Sherlock’s room.

John tucked a blanket tenderly around Sherlock’s shoulders and then leaned against him, wrapping his arm over top of the bundle and bringing them in for a much needed cuddle.


	7. Chapter 7

John pressed a kiss to the side of Sherlock’s head, nosing into those beautiful curls he’d dreamed about all day. They were just as soft and luxurious as he’d imagined. Sherlock turned his face for a kiss and John happily obliged. He figured, after they day they’d had they each deserved a little something. A little reward for surviving. There was so much adrenaline he needed to burn off, to spend with someone else or else risk coming down from it jittery and aggravated and snapping at everyone. How much nicer it would be to ride out the crest and low tide of it in Sherlock’s arms.

Sherlock’s lips were sinfully delicious, better than carmeled apples, better than any candy won from the hands of strangers and neighbors.

“John?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah,” John answered, his voice unexpectedly low and rough.

“I think maybe we better make sure I can never light another black flamed candle,” Sherlock said, wriggling around in John’s lap so that he was straddling the other boy’s thighs with his arms hug around John’s neck.

“That’s your line?” John asked incredulously. “That’s bloody awful.” 

“Shut up and kiss me,” Sherlock growled, his cheeks and ears turning pink.

“Now that I can do,” John agreed, getting right to it.

…

Much later John had redressed and Sherlock had done nothing more for his modesty than wrap a white sheet around himself before they’d made the trek downstairs to the kitchen. They’d dozed lightly in each other’s arms but had woken up after barely any sleep when their stomachs gave out twin gurgles protesting their emptiness. 

They fed each other leftovers from Sherlock’s family’s party nipping at each other’s fingers playfully and brushing their shins and feet together beneath the table.

“Did you hear that?” Sherlock asked suddenly, dropping the piece of chicken he’d been nibbling at and looking towards the window. He half fell off the stool, scrambling for the curtains which he threw aside. 

Droves of children were walking down the street as a dark figure flew overhead, swooping just low enough that Sherlock and John could make out the shape of her broom stick. 

“Oh no,” John muttered just as a deafening crash came from above. The two teenagers looked at each other aghast. 

“Harry,” they said at once. Sherlock ran straight for the stairs but John detoured to the kitchen, snatching the largest salt shaker he could find.  
By the time John had run up the stairs Jim had Sherlock in his grasp as Seb cackled from where he held Harry and the book. Jim was marching Sherlock toward the shattered remains of the window as if he meant to drop him over. 

“Think again hag!” John screamed, twisting the top off the salt and flinging half of it in Jim’s face when he turned, enraged by the insult. Jim dropped Sherlock who scrambled back, away from the window.

“There’s a little white witch in you, isn’t there boy?” Jim hissed, backing away from where John held the salt shaker protectively in front of Sherlock. 

“Our mother taught me well,” John replied calmly, catching Harry’s terrified eyes. It was no good though, Seb had Harry held good and tight and Jim was positioned between John and his sister. Even if he’d ever known enough magic to make a go of it there was nothing he could have hoped to accomplish against such odds.

“I knew this one was special!” Seb crowed triumphantly. 

“True, ‘tis true, the daughter of a white witch should have a nice powerful, pure life force for us to drain. Thank you so much Johnny boy for the spectacular gift. I’ll give you something nice in return. I’ll let you live, live knowing that you failed your sister, your mother, and all the children of Salem. Live and watch us reign! Honey, I can’t wait to show you how good I look in a crown.” Jim winked as John gritted his teeth and Sherlock dug his nails into John’s shoulders. 

“Toodles!” Jim taunted, summoning his broom to his hand and gliding out of the gaping hole where the window had once been after Seb.

“They’re predictable,” Sherlock said, watching the three siblings flying toward the dusty remnant of their former home. “They’re going back to their old cottage and they’ll need time to brew the potion. We can still rescue Harry and the other children if we think quickly.” 

“Fuck thinking,” John said grimly. “I’m taking my dad’s gun and every grain of salt I can find and I’m going to their fucking house and I’m burning it to the fucking ground and cleansing it if it’s the last goddamn thing I do.” 

“I guess that’s one plan,” Sherlock conceded uneasily. “Not quite what I had in mind though.”

“Did your mother tell you anything else about black magic or dark witches? What do we know, John, what can we use against them?” Lestrade asked, having apparently just come back to life again after a wretched blow from one of the witches.

“I know the black flamed candle will only last until the breaking of dawn. Salt is their enemy and consecrated ground.”

“There’s only a couple hours until sunrise,” Sherlock said, checking his watch. “This won’t be half as hard as I thought it’d be.”

“You’ll need to get dressed first,” John reminded him, eyeing the sheet which had fallen dangerously low across his hips- low enough to reveal that there was certainly nothing under it but Sherlock.

…

Getting to the former museum the Sanderson Siblings lived in was not a difficult task once the boys had liberated Sherlock’s parents’ BMW from the garage. Neither of them would ever have to think twice about where the rickety cottage stood again.

Tricking the Sanderson’s into thinking that the sun had risen was so laughably simple that Sherlock was congratulating himself even before he dumped the steaming lime green potion all over their wooden floor.

Harry was quick to catch on to their game when she saw the headlights of the BMW glaring into the windows of the cottage and they were well away before any of the outdated witches ever knew what hit them.

“Where are we going?” Harry yelled as the boys pulled her into the cemetery.

“They don’t have much time left now and If I’m right they’re going to want to spend their last hours trying to exact whatever revenge they can from us. This is the safest place for us to hide from them since at least here they can’t touch the ground,” Sherlock answered her. 

Just as he spoke Molly Hooper lunged from the shadow of a nearby tree. John screamed for Sherlock and pushed Harry out of the way. Sherlock took hold of the girl as Molly took hold of John.

“Take her and run!” John ordered, struggling to be free. Sherlock hesitated, bit his lip, but did as John asked, booking it towards the monuments where he may find a safe enough place to stash Harry that he could run to John’s aide. 

“That’s it!” Jim shrieked, hovering outside the cemetery gates on his broom. “Finish the impudently little brat Molly! Do it you measely sack of worm dung! Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?! Hurry up!” John got a hand around his pocket knife. He pulled it out and stabbed it in Molly’s arm but she just pulled it out with her other hand used it to cut the stitches from her lips. 

Molly took a deep rattling breath and then looked right at Jim. “You foul, lying, no-good, _ass_!” She spat. “I’m not killing anyone and certainly never for you!” 

“You’ll pay for that you two bit strumpet!” Jim hissed. “I killed you once and I’ll do it again!” Jim flew off and Molly let go of John, handing him a pocket knife.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to say that to him,” Molly confided. “I’m Molly Hooper, thanks for that, by the way.” 

“Don’t mention it,” John said, once again astounded beyond words. Together they walked off in the direction Sherlock had taken. The teen in question charged at Molly from behind a tall monument, swinging a branch with surprising skill and precision.

“Sherlock it’s cool, it’s okay, Molly’s on our side!” John soothed.

“What?” Sherlock asked, bewildered.

“Jim didn’t like me breaking up with him so he killed me. I’m no fan of his anymore,” Molly explained. 

“Oh,” said Sherlock. “Good. Well, help us hide this child then.”

“Gladly,” Molly answered. She helped Harry down into her vacant grave and took a shaker of salt from the bag John and Sherlock had brought, spreading it in a circle around the grave. John handed Harry a baseball bat while he and Sherlock doused tree branches in the kerosine they’d taken from Sherlock’s garage and lit them on fire.

The Sandersons swooped in from above, cackling and swiping at John and Sherlock who swung back at them even as they retreated in opposite directions. 

“Sweet Molly, you’re looking your age. I really do think you could do with a little facelift,” Jim taunted, swooping down at her sharply and kicking her head right off her shoulders. Molly fell to her knees, crawling around and moaning in a desperate effort to find her misplaced head.

“Here,” Harry offered, crawling out of her grave to help. “I think you lost this.”

“Harry!” John shouted, sprinting toward her from where he’d been pushed thirty feet away by Sebastian. It was too late. Jim had gotten what he wanted- Harry out of the consecrated ground and circle, totally helpless. The witch snatched her up quick as anything, hovering twenty feet in the air with the girl sitting astride her broom.

“Isn’t this fun now!” Jim laughed, holding the vial of green potion aloft. “Time to say night night little girl. I’ll teach you what happens to naughty girls who call brilliant witches stupid!”  
“Harry!” John called with helpless horror.

“Not this time!” Lestrade screamed. leaping on a tree limb and then jumping to the edge of Jim’s broom where it was too close to the branches. Lestrade threw himself bodily at the potion, knocking it from Jim’s hands and upsetting the broom enough that Jim had to grip it with both hands so that Harry fell. 

Molly saw the girl dropping as if in slow motion and threw herself forward to catch her safely in her arms.

“Damn you all!” Jim shrieked as his siblings flew to his aide. But it was too late. The sun had risen and all that was evil was turned to dust.

With their demise came too the deaths of their dear friends, Lestrade and Molly. This was not really a death though, this was a well earned moving on to a place more suited to such old and tired souls as they. Lestrade and Molly gave their tearful farewells and disappeared into the misty light hand in hand.

They all stared a few moments in silence after their dear friends.

“So when are we going to talk about the fact that your mother was a witch and the implications of that?” Sherlock asked. 

“So when are we going to talk about the fact that you left Anderson and Donnovan hanging in those cages in the witches’ cottage after you stole my shoes back?” John countered. 

Harry groaned, tired, put upon, and totally without any candy to show for her exciting night.

All was as it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! I hope you enjoyed this crazy, drawn out ride. Happy Halloween, All Hallows Eve, Samhain, Celtic New Year, Dia de les Muertos, etc. So many thanks and so much love to everyone who's been hanging on for this one.
> 
> Please like and comment to let me know what you think!
> 
> Until next time :)


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